Secret Agent Santa

“I know, I know, especially poor.”

Tapping the car’s GPS, he said, “Are we still going to Mount Vernon?”

“Why not? I just want to get out of DC, and Mount Vernon’s as good as anyplace. Besides, I’m supposed to be showing you the sights.”

“It’s going to be a madhouse in DC for the next several weeks. Director Haywood’s death is going to affect us, too.”

“I think his assassination serves many purposes. I have no doubt that it was to put Spencer in position, but there must’ve been another reason. Maybe the director knew something.” She squeezed her eyes closed trying to remember the last time her stepfather and Haywood had met.

“This is a lot bigger than you now, Claire. You’re not going to discover anything the CIA or FBI isn’t going to discover.”

“Is that your way of telling me to back off?” She gripped her knees, her fingers curling into the denim of her jeans. “If the CIA and the FBI had anything on Spencer, they would’ve made a move by now. I know things those agencies don’t know.”

He glanced at her as he veered off the highway, following the sign pointing toward Mount Vernon. “That’s why I’m here.”

They rode in silence as he maneuvered the car to the parking area. He swung into a slot, leaving a few spaces between her car and the next one over. “Not very crowded today.”

“Too cold, and maybe people don’t want to be hanging around tourist areas after last night.”

“Do you want to head inside the mansion or get a cup of coffee at the Mount Vernon Inn so we can talk?”

“Since I dragged you out here so we could talk away from prying eyes and pricked ears, let’s get some coffee.”

Claire opened her door and stepped onto the parking lot, the heels of her knee-high boots clicking dully against the asphalt. The bare trees bordering the lot gave them a clear view of the mansion and the shops and restaurant next to it. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it so empty here.”

“That’s a good thing. The last time I visited, I couldn’t get a table at the restaurant.”

“I don’t think we’re going to have that problem now.” She shoved her gloved hands into the pockets of her coat and hunched her shoulders. “Shall we?”

Mike locked the car and joined her, his own hands concealed in his pockets. They passed just two other parties making their way to the mansion.

Mike opened the door of the restaurant and ushered her into the half-empty room with its Colonial decor. A hostess in Colonial dress, a little white mob cap perched on her curls, smiled. “Do you have reservations?”

Raising his brows, Mike’s gaze scanned the room. “No. Do we need one? We just want some coffee.”

“Just checking. You don’t need a reservation today.” She swept her arm across the room. “We’ve had several cancellations. I think it’s because of that awful business last night.”

“You might be right.” Mike nodded. “Can we grab that table by the window?”

“Of course.”

They sat down and ordered their coffees, which their waitress delivered in record time.

Mike dumped a packet of sugar into the steaming liquid and stirred. Then he braced his forearms on the table, cupping his hands around the mug of coffee. “Start from the beginning.”

“The beginning.” Claire swirled a ribbon of cream in her coffee and placed the spoon on the saucer with a click. “It all started when Spencer Correll came out of nowhere, married my mother and then killed her.”

“Your mother fell down the stairs.”

She took a sip of her coffee and stared at Mike over the rim of her cup. “He murdered her.”

“You think he pushed her down the stairs? That’s hardly a surefire method for murder. People can and do survive falls like that.”

“He pushed her and then finished the job by smothering her with a pillow.” Her eyes watered, and she dabbed the corners with her napkin.

“And you know this how?”

“I saw the pillow.” She dashed a tear from her cheek.

“Lying next to your mother’s body? What did the police think about it?”

“No, no.” She took a deep breath. “That’s just it. There was no pillow there. I noticed my mother’s pillow on her bed later—with her lipstick on it.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Mike cocked his head, his nostrils flaring.

“My mother was meticulous about her beauty regimen.” As Mike shifted in his seat, she held up her index finger. “Just wait. She never, and I mean never, went to bed with makeup on. She’d remove it, cleanse, moisturize. I mean, this routine took her about thirty minutes every night. There is no way there would be lipstick on her pillow, no reason for it.”

“Let me get this straight.” Sitting back in his chair, Mike folded his arms over his chest. “Your mother loses her life falling down some stairs, you see lipstick on her pillow and immediately believe your stepfather murdered her?”

“It wasn’t just the pillow.” She glanced both ways and the cupped her mouth with her hand. “It was the phone call.”

“You just lost me.” He drew his brows over his nose. “What phone call?”

“A few years before Mom’s so-called accident, a woman called me with a warning about Spencer Correll. She said he was dangerous and that he’d killed before and would do so again to get what he wanted.”

“Who was the woman?”

“She wouldn’t give me her name.”

“Did you inform the police?”

“At the time of the call?” She widened her eyes. “I thought it was a prank, but I told them about it when Mom died.”

“They dismissed it.”

“Yes, even after I showed them the pillow.”

He rubbed his knuckles across the black stubble on his chin. “Did the cops tell Correll about your suspicions?”

“No.”

“Did you ever hear from this woman again? After your mother’s death?”

“No.”

He dropped his spikey, dark lashes over his eyes, but not before she saw a glimpse of pity gleaming from their depths.

She clenched her jaw. She didn’t expect him to believe her, but she didn’t want to be pitied. People generally reserved their pity for the crazy or delusional. Neither applied to her—anymore.